“I apologize. My mistake. But you called me naive about a professional matter and that is, at the very least, a disparaging remark.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You’re not naive. But I think you’re crossing a line. You’re definitely not respecting me as a professional.”
“How?”
“It’s my work. I don’t want you to send tapes of my work to be used in any research.”
“Even if that research is impartial?”
“I don’t believe there’s any way you can know that. And even if you find out he’s open-minded right now, I don’t believe there’s any way you can predict how Samuel will eventually use those tapes. He might not be impartial six months from now. And also,” she raised a finger to indicate this last item was crucial, “I don’t believe any study of the fantasizing of normal children says a thing about the veracity of abused children. You know perfectly well we don’t investigate charges of abuse without some sort of corroboration, either physical or emotional. We’d have ruled out all those kids in the mouse study after observing that their behavior was otherwise normal. And you also know—” she pointed at me as if I were a misbehaving toddler, “you, of all people, know that abused children fantasize in the opposite direction, not imagining worse abuse, but imagining love.”
I looked at her scolding finger and waited until she noticed and lowered it. “Diane,” I said quietly, “if you review what you just said carefully, I really believe you’ll see a contradiction. If healthy children are shown to fantasize abuse easily then any accusation is suspect. The distinction you just drew actually makes Phil’s study more urgent, not less so. Also, if he can prove that children easily fantasize non-sexual events, but can’t so easily fantasize sexual abuse, then he’ll strengthen the credibility of abused kids when they testify. You’re also ignoring the fact that he will go forward with the pediatrician study whether we cooperate or not. Pretending he doesn’t exist won’t make him go away.”
“You’re not listening to me!”
During my long speech I allowed my eyes to drift away from her, watching the evening bustle of pedestrians on West End: going home with briefcases or groceries; children in disheveled school clothes, lugging backpacks; exhausted joggers returning from the park; the homeless standing at each corner, cups out, like toll booths. When I looked back to Diane at the noise of her distress, I was surprised to see just how upset she was. She scrunched up her freckled nose, lifting her glasses above the eyebrows, squinting at me, her mouth in a grimace of pain.
“What’s wrong?” I said, meaning the pain.
“You’re not listening to me,” she pointed at her chest. “You’re acting as if I’m some kind of employee, like I’m your graduate student. That’s my work, goddammit! You have no right to make decisions about it. You have no right to give it away without my consent.”
I hadn’t looked at it in this light. Mostly because I didn’t think of the tapes as belonging to either of us; rather, they belonged to the clinic, to our work; they should serve our colleagues, to help them help the children.
While I absorbed the difference in our perceptions, Diane faced forward and added to the windshield, “And I’m pissed off that you looked at them without asking me. It’s like you opened my mail or something. Or read my diary. No.” she looked at me again. “It’s like you checked up on me. ‘I’m very proud of your work,’” she quoted my compliment as if it were an insult. “Like you’re my teacher giving me a grade.”
“Okay,” I said, more to myself than her. “Okay, I understand now. We’re really not getting each other. I’m sorry that’s the impression I gave you. Believe me, it’s the opposite. At first I assumed you’d have no objection. When I found out you did, I held them back. And if you don’t want me to send them, I won’t. I don’t think it’s your work, however, any more than the tapes of Albert are my work. Our tapes belong to all of us and they belong to our profession.”
“That’s naive, Rafe,” Diane said in a new tone. Solemn and blunt without an edge of hysteria and wounded feeling. “I know you’re not naive, but to expect people not to feel proprietary and protective of their work is naive. I’m willing to believe you would react differently if I gave away your tapes, but then you’re exceptional. Most people would feel what I’m feeling.”
“Okay,” I said. “All I want to say right now, what’s really important right now, is for you to understand that I have nothing but the greatest respect for you and the work you’ve done and that I will never release your work, or even my work for that matter, without your blessing.”
Diane smiled. “Now you’re going too far.” She leaned over and kissed me. “You can do what you like with your work.” She settled back, obviously relieved, pleased with me. “But I don’t think you should give anything to that snake. He’s a liar and you can’t trust him.”
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said. “Now, we’d better get going. We’re late.”
We arrived at a quarter after seven, fifteen minutes late. Joseph and Harlan weren’t there, although they had picked the place — a chic, expensive and loud restaurant called Cafe Luxembourg. By then Diane and I had made up. I still didn’t know what I should do about Phil. I was disturbed by the gossip Diane had told me and I was considering whether I ought to go to Webster University and talk to him face-to-face. If he had drifted into the child-can’t-be-believed camp, then I wanted to remonstrate: the mouse scenario was significant, but inconclusive; should he proceed to the pediatrician test prejudging it, that could pollute the results, just as a therapist’s prejudices might elicit false stories. At the same time, although I had resolved the misunderstanding between Diane and me, I was disturbed by an aspect of her behavior that I hadn’t yet challenged, mostly because I didn’t have the facts to do so. Since refusing to deal in any way with Samuel, she had been on the phone to others checking up on him. I worried this indicated that she had drifted into the child-must-be-believed camp. All accusations of child abuse can’t be true, any more than the reverse. Part of our work, unfortunately, was mixed up with the law’s tedious need to pretend there are immutable facts and just punishments. Diane, it seemed to me, was too defensive. No technique is perfect. As a scientist, her first reaction should have been more curiosity about Phil’s work and less energy for debasing him.
At seven forty-five, Diane and I were still waiting at the bar when Harlan rushed in, pushing roughly through the crush of people between us. But upon arrival he stared as if we were a disappointment. “He’s not here,” he said, not a question.
“Joseph?” Diane asked.
“Shit,” Harlan said. He had cut off his ponytail since we’d last seen him, and cut off most of his blond hair as well, so that it seemed to be a flat top, although it was too long to qualify in some places, and the sides were slicked down, not shortened. He wore his usual tight black jeans with no belt, a black silk shirt buttoned to the collar with no tie, and old-fashioned black high-top Converse sneakers — at least they had laces. He hadn’t shaved in several days, but I could tell he wasn’t starting a beard. His light blue eyes were so young and troubled they undercut the tough style of his outfit and grooming.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know where he is,” Harlan said, not angry, with resignation.
“You had a fight?” Diane asked.
Harlan looked around. “Is there a phone?” He made a move to push back toward the maitre d’.
I grabbed his arm. “What’s happened, Harlan? Tell me.”
“I don’t know.” He lowered his head as if shamed.
“You mean, you’re not supposed to say?”